Honest Reflection
by Setsumi-san
Summary: Mosuke wants a mirror, one of the finer things in life, but Amidamaru teaches him he doesn't need one to know how handsome he really looks. AmidamaruxMosuke


**Honest Reflection**

An AmidaMosuke Fic by **Setsumi-san**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Shaman King in any way, shape, or form. (If I did I'd make an hour long TV special devoted to Amidamaru in all of his sexy glory.) I do not plan, never have planned, and never will plan to make any money off of this fanfic.

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**Quotable Quotes: **"Holy crap! The vultures are eating my head!"-Roy O'Bannon, Shanghai Noon

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Five…four…three…two…one…**The 4th Wall **

Shojo sparkles and bubbles grace the Fourth Wall's background as I skip out.

"May I present...the new and improved version of Honest Reflection for your reading pleasure! A big shout out to **just a rambling romantic** for giving me some tips!" I chirp merrily.

"I _still _say the missing factor was ham sandwiches," Horohoro grumbles.

"Why are you here? Shouldn't you be making out with Ren or something?" I ask.

Horohoro tuns strawberry red and splutters.

"That's what I thought," I say, "Anyway, feedback is loved!"

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Mosuke the swordsmith stood outside his thatch roofed workshop grimacing at his homely reflection in the drinking ladle. The water showed frowzy brown hair with matching chin stubble and beads of sweat on his face from working over a fire all day. He wasn't sure whether he was more disgusted by his looks or his vanity. Water was for drinking, not primping like a damned woman.

Peasants like him had more important things to do than fuss over looks. He knew he shouldn't care about his face, yet couldn't tear his eyes away from the water even though the reflection was distorted. The truth was that he only cared about his appearance when he really got a chance to see it.

The brunette sighed and recalled the first time he had been self-concious about his face. He had been roughly eight years old and his best friend was four. It had been what they referred to as a Jade Day: one when they actually had time to play. A shower from the night before had formed many mud puddles, so it was a boy's fream come true. They had laughed, thrown mudballs, and wrestled for hours without a care in the world. Little Amidamaru teased him with 'you can't catch me's' and he would retaliate by throwing a mudball into his face or playfully tackling him into a puddle. Unfortunately, a merchant and his snooty ten-year-old daughter had passed by them and she had gotten splashed.

He had shaken like a twig in a thundertorm when she stomped up to him. Would her father have him executed? Anyone who lacked money or agricultural skills, especially an _artisan's_ son, was frowned upon enough as it was! He'd wiped the mud from his eyes and started to apologize profusely, but she'd slapped him so hard that he'd landed face first into the muck. Grinning wickedly, she'd sneered that pigs were less ugly when they stayed in the mud.

The tone she used made him feel more worthless than a slug. Was he really just another hideous and diseased peasant who would never make it? _Pig..._ On that day he became truly aware of how much wealth mattered, and grew a little too old for Jade Days.

His thoughts were interrupted by a distant whicker and some hoofbeats. The smithy lifted his head up and smiled when he saw that it was Amidamaru riding up on horseback.

"Hello, my friend," he greeted, "Have you come to ask me to make a sword for a fellow samurai?"

"No, I simply wished to visit and show you something very interesting," he replied amicably.

"What is it?" Mosuke asked.

The samurai took a spellbinding handheld mirror out of his satchel. It had a polished tin front with a chrysanthemum pattern gracing the gleaming bronze surface. (1) The smithy had to supress himself from fainting at its beauty. He hadn't seen such fine metal craftsmanship since his father was alive!

He immediately drank his water and asked, "What is this?"

"It's called a mirror," the samurai replied, "My lord gave it to me as a reward for a recent mission and told me you use it to look at yourself."

"So _this_ is what one looks like. I never thought I'd get a chance to see a rich man's toy like this. Could you see yourself as well as they say you can?"

"Oh yes, it is a remarkable thing. Here, see for yourself."

"Oh. Eh, I don't really care about using it. I just wished to know if the rumors were true," Mosuke responded casually. He waved his right hand in a dismissive gesture as though swatting the question away like a fly.

"You lie," he said with a smirk.

He knew his friend always acted nonchalant whenever he was genuinely curious about something. It was actually sort of endearing. Heh! Now _that_ was amusing. Most people would hardly consider the brawny boulder of a man before him more frightening than endearing. Yet…there was something about him that made his heart soften.

Mosuke returned inside his workshop so Amidamaru wouldn't see his annoyed scowl and slight blush. The warrior's ability to read his mind was frustrating sometimes, though it was more often reassuring. Knowing he would get his arm sliced off before betraying him made his blood rush like whitewater rapids for some reason. Although he would never admit such weakness, he didn't know how he'd live if anything ever happened to him.

He reached for his tongs so he could cool off his latest blade (2), but unfortunately brushed his hand against some red-hot steel by accident. The swordsmith hissed in pain and gritted his teeth. It was nothing serious, but during that split second it felt like he'd stuck it in a beehive.

"Mosuke! Are you alright?" Amidamaru cried out, rushing to his injured friend's side.

" I'll …I'll be okay. My hand's just a little pink," he said bravely.

The younger man unconsciously grasped his wrist and soothingly rubbed his palm with his thumb. Slowly but surely the sting dissolved to a dull throb. An oddly delightful vertigo overcame the peasant's heart. His friend's touch was a hundred times more comforting than any medicine.

They involuntarily stayed close together for a long time enjoying each other's heat and spicy scent. Amidamaru never wanted to stop stroking his companion. Most people would have thought his skin was rough and parched, but the samurai saw it as manly, powerful, and-dare he say it- handsome.

"Ah…what were you saying?" the dazed brunette finally asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Why are you really curious about mirrors?" Amidamaru continued, letting go, and looking much more like his regular taciturn self.

"I don't know. I…I suppose it's sheer selfishness. Dammit, I wish I could afford one," he answered.

"I will buy you one," Amidamaru said.

He snickered.

"I am serious," he told him.

The artisan arched his right eyebrow in slight surprise.

"We promised each other both of us would be knee-deep in money and treasure one day, did we not? If there is a treasure you do not own, we have not yet reached that goal. You will own one of your own."

Mosuke's conscience screamed unworthiness. Amidamaru could be so heartbreakingly generous when he wanted to.

"You…..I'm touched that you remember our childhood oath, but that's really not necessary. We made our dreams come true. Besides…" –Here he laughed- "I don't need one to know how plain I look."

"You have never been plain to me," Amidamaru honestly said.

"Heh! Thank you, but you can't possibly depict my face honestly because you're my friend."

Suddenly, Amidamaru gently but firmly placed his hands on his shoulders. Mosuke couldn't help blushing again. He could always lift his spirits even with something as simple as a touch.

"Do you really want an honest reflection?" the lavender-haired male questioned.

Mosuke was rendered speechless.

_His face is so close to mine! _he thought. He managed to nod in response somehow.

"Do as I do," he said.

He suspiciously arched an eyebrow.

"Trust me," Amidamaru reassured. Mosuke sighed and smirked.

He lifted his right hand up and the swordsmith copied him. Next he pushed their palms forward so that they touched and waved them in a circle. Their faces inched closer and closer as though an invisible magnet was pulling them together. Before the warrior knew it, he was kissing his best friend…and he was returning it.

It wasn't a deep, tongue wiggling, soap opera kiss, but it wasn't shy and innocent either. The feeling was as deliciously intoxicating as ambrosia. Right then Mosuke did not care what he looked like or that he was kissing another man. Both of them were completely at peace this way. It was spellbinding.

When they separated, Mosuke chuckled and said, "Well, I can safely say that I don't feel plain anymore."

**Fin**

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1. Amidamaru and Mosuke might have either been dead by the time handheld mirrors came to Japan or they could have had one imported from medieval Korea. I'm going with the second possibility for art's sake.

2. This refers to a step in the sword making process when the metal is rapidly cooled in water so it will maintain its shape.


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